


When Morning Comes

by mxlecter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxlecter/pseuds/mxlecter
Summary: The first time Will says it, it blindsides Hannibal. Makes him wistful. Furious.A post-TWOTL one-shot.





	When Morning Comes

The first time Will says it, it blindsides Hannibal. Makes him wistful. Furious.

Their rough, cloudy-headed recovery behind them at last, Hannibal wakes at sunrise, threads his fingers through the overgrown curls obscuring Will's face, and strokes at the shell of Will's ear with his thumb. He has touched him this way several times, but—never divorced from betrayal, violence, rebirth. Never as a soft luxury.

He ghosts his knuckles over a strong pulse, uneven stubble, asymmetrical nostrils, long eyelashes; he cups his palm over the scar along the left cheekbone. Will stirs in his sleep, nuzzles into the caress, and sighs, content.

His fingertips resume mapping the unbandaged parts of Will’s face while his eyes catalogue every pore and muscle movement. They could drift back into sleep together... Hannibal begins to. But before dreams overtake Will, his warm, raspy voice slurs a greeting: "G'morning, Beautiful."

And Hannibal's hand stills. And the corners of his mouth downturn.

Will's body remembers another.

It’s not the first time Will has stolen Hannibal's breath for the worst. It’s not even among Will's most painful slights. Yet, the words reverberating in Hannibal's mind wound deep. They conjure a faceless woman in a house built of pine: a "Mrs. Graham," if ever she took the name. He wonders whose bed feels emptier at the moment.

Will mumbles it again the following morning, and when Hannibal returns half an hour later with breakfast, Will blinks away sleep and smiles, unspeaking.

The third morning, Hannibal rises in the pre-dawn, places at Will's bedside a simple breakfast that won't spoil, and tends to the small patch of earth outside the cabin. They will leave the country before long, but he begins a modest herb garden using seeds from the supply shed. Then he walks the perimeter, then past it, and doesn't return until noon.

Regret follows him. He clutches for that sleep-soft face and appropriated endearment, but his mind latches onto an image of Will waking alone and confused.

So the fourth morning, he stays. He strokes Will's palm, and Will gives his fingers a gentle squeeze in kind.

Again, the words come: "G'morning, Beautiful." He dozes for another fifteen minutes, then opens his eyes to Hannibal's unwavering gaze and quirks his lips. "Hi," he whispers.

"Good morning," Hannibal greets, a smile of his own. He ignores the pained lurch in his heart.

On the fifth morning, he rises and makes breakfast without disturbing Will's sleep. If, upon waking, a corner of his beloved's psyche conjures a woman from the past, Hannibal won't dwell on it. She shares that space with common killers, after all. Why spare a thought to the forsaken?

Because Will did forsake that family in a house built of pine. He chose Hannibal. He chose intimacy that requires no bed.

The kitchenette overrun with the smell and hiss of fat on the skillet, Will's lazy steps toward him go unnoticed. As Hannibal flips their cuts of loin bacon, strong arms curl around his middle and a stubbled chin rests over his shoulder.

"G'morning, Beautiful," Will greets, punctuated by nuzzling his cheek against Hannibal's. "Looks delicious."

The skillet clanks back onto the burner. The front-left dial on the stove snaps clean off.

Face alight and eyes shimmering in the lamplight, Hannibal turns in Will's arms and brings their foreheads together. "Good morning, Love."

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal can't hesitate any longer—he needs to know. "Did you say the same to your wife every day?" he asks, eyes affixed on his coffee mug.
> 
> Will pauses mid-step. He returns to his seat, plops down their stacked plates, and—with gentle hand—shifts the mug aside. Hannibal looks up. "No," he assures, brushing a thumb across Hannibal's palm, "it's all ours."


End file.
